


C'est La Vie, Unfortunately

by late_to_everything



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mild Language, Tags May Change, how do i tag no seriously, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26067934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/late_to_everything/pseuds/late_to_everything
Summary: No matter what age, Byleth just can't take a break, and the worst part is that it's mostly not his fault.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	1. Is that a friend?

Mornings in suburban Galatea were usually nice, if not a bit underwhelming. During Spring, birds would rouse from their slumber on their twigged nests perched on bare trees, singing the neighborhood awake with their piercing shrieks. Summer was no different, and neither was Fall. Winters, however, left the already frigid state even colder to the point of indoor frostbite being possible.

Oh, did he say nice? He actually meant grueling. Mornings were never pleasant to Byleth, made worse on an old bed that was bound to collapse any time soon. He always woke up with a strange ache on either his shoulder or back. However, he could never voice his frustrations. He was lucky to experience the comfort of a bed, regardless of whether it were twice as old as he was or not. Or so said his father at least.

Sighing, he slipped out of his covers and winced as his feet touched chilled ground. Maybe one day, he could buy a bed he could just sink into. And one of those heavy duvets to boot, make it extremely difficult to leave the confines of his bed. Not now, though. His main concern now was to prepare for school, and he barely had enough time to be ready as is.

Fresh out of the shower, he reminded himself of his new obligations. No longer was he attending the nearby Conand Learning Center, but Fhirdiad’s Loog von Blaiddyd Private Academy - which meant that there were many changes for him to get used to. For one, he would have to wake up earlier than he cared for to accommodate the distance being travelled. In addition to that, the roads of Faerghus are only ever empty at dawn, which left Byleth little choice on transportation matters. Another was the provided uniforms. Though uncomfortably stiff, at least the learning center's uniforms were simple in appearance. The new ensemble he was given was conspicuous to say the least. The blue jacket with gilded buttons and epaulets did not look right on his wiry frame, much less the decorative trousers. With his coat and shoes, the outfit only created a severe contrast that he did not care for.

He shook off his thoughts and headed to the kitchen. It would not bode well for him to worry about something so frivolous, hence he ignored how leaden his feet felt and simply surged forward. Jeralt, his father, was already seated by the tiny table, waiting with a cup of instant coffee. In front of the empty chair was a bowl of what appeared to be soup, confirmed by the astringent smell wafting in the air.

“Good morning,” Byleth mumbled as he sat. Hesitantly, he spooned some of the slop into his mouth then gagged. In all good conscience, he could not call it food, but he could admit that it was, at the very least, edible. Though that did not stop him from wishing it were something else instead.

“Morning, kid. You excited for your first day?” Jeralt grunted with a voice so rough that had Byleth not known better, he would have thought him angry. There was a twinkle in his eyes, however; his chapped lips curved so subtly that it was barely noticeable. From sight, he could tell that Jeralt was in high spirits. Byleth lifted a corner of his lips. At least one of them was feeling the morning mirth.

Byleth nodded, and watched as his father exhaled slowly, joy still present on his wrinkled face. He ducked down and tried to continued eating.

Had Byleth been any younger, he would have filled the awkward silence with incessant chatter and unending questions. He was a curious boy then. No matter how many times Jeralt called him a cheeky brat, he stayed relentless in his inquiry.

But as he grew older, so did his awareness of his surroundings. He saw how people would stare at them, clear distrust in squinted eyes; the occasional doubt that he was his father’s child. He asked about that once, as he had been too young to understand the implications of such, but it only brought Jeralt to silence. He never asked since then.

Though the event was rather anticlimactic in hindsight, he supposed it was what made him reticent. As he did not possess similar features to his father, he adopted a similar disposition just to dispel any doubts regarding his paternity. Though, sometimes he could admit that it brought him loneliness more than anything. A silent boy was never one for much attention, after all.

His thoughts were put to a halt when he heard a horn blaring outside their flat. The bus was here, his lips curled unpleasantly. Painted in blue and accented in white, it was not like the learning center’s buses, though he was unsure if that mattered much. He slung his bag over his shoulders and hastily bid his father goodbye before boarding.

The interior of the bus was warm unlike those he was familiar with. Made sense, he supposed. Faerghus was notorious for its cold climate, especially in the northern regions. The academy was located in Fhirdiad, and while not the coldest, the city teetered towards unbearable for the uninitiated. Byleth swallowed thickly at that. He quickly picked an empty seat and watched as his home disappeared slowly, willing away any doubt that he would not be able to withstand the cold.

Buildings came and went; structures slowly took shape then quickly blurred as the bus rushed by. Byleth watched anxiously as he shifted in the wide, plush seat. In truth, he was not too enthusiastic with transferring. He found the shift unnecessary, unreasonable even. However, Jeralt had looked so proud clutching the notice that Byleth was unable to tell him that he did not wish to move at all.

He sighed as the bus came to a halt. Already he could see the gates, free from any rust or corrosion yet its pearlescent finish only made it more all the more intimidating. Byleth shivered as he shuffled along his schoolmates.

In all honesty, the courtyard did not look too different from any state school. It was more dirt than grass and the few plants that thrived were spread sporadically, but it was the same in essence. What was different, however, was the handful of guards patrolling the area, all dressed in spick-and-span navy blue coats with matching hats.

One spotted the cluster of students and carefully approached. Her gait was slow so as to not startle them and her lips were curved into a gentle smile on her ruddy face, yet Byleth could not help but tense up. Would she look at the discolored patches at the bottom of his coat? Or the mismatched laces of his shoes? Her eyes landed briefly on him, and for a second he imagined that she leered at him.

“You must be the new students,” she observed, thick accent prominent in her words. Her eyes passed him once more and he saw that her expression did not change the slightest bit. He stared as the others nodded. “Come along then, the school counsellor’s been expectin’ you lot.”

He kept his face down as he walked. The courtyard was plain enough, yes, but the interior was nothing if not magnificent. Angels were carved into the pillars that held up the ceiling, posed to frolic forevermore in marbled glory. Haloed figures were painted on the plafond. Their faces were the very picture of serenity though they stood stiffly with weapons in hand. It almost felt wrong to look around, hence he kept his eyes on his scuffed shoes.

It took many twists and turns for them to reach a wooden door. Above were the words “School Counsellor” etched in a gilded plate, though no name that could identify who it was could be found nearby. Pressing a finger to her lips, the guard quickly hushed the excitable children.

“We’re here,” she announced, rapping her knuckles against the door. When a muffled voice answered, she twisted the knob and ushered them all inside.

Inside was another woman behind the desk, dressed in thinner layers of clothing as she was stationed inside. Her suit was immaculate, silver and white with a few touches of gold. Fawn hair framed her gentle face, pinned with elaborate clips.

Her office was also pristine, though in a very clinical manner. There was a settee near the entrance – its cushions were unwrinkled in the slightest – and beside it was a plant that looked too waxy to be genuine. There were bookcases to her left, and framed pictures behind her desk. They seemed to be devoid of any life, a sharp contrast to the counsellor.

Once she dismissed the guard, the counsellor animatedly introduced herself as Mrs. von Martritz. She spoke dearly about the school facilities and academic expectations with startling familiarity, even digressing at points to include commentary. Though, Byleth barely listened. He was too nervous to do so, intent on staring at his feet despite her calm voice.

Once she was done, she led each of them to their respective classroom. Ten students all in all, and yet time passed too quickly that eventually, it was Byleth’s turn to be led. Panicking, he looked up at her and hoped she could sense his unease, though she only placed a hand on his back to placate him.

“It’s okay, Byleth,” Mrs. von Martritz said softly, voice barely above a whisper. Difficult as it was to hear, however, that was probably for the best to avoid any accidental humiliation. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

With her encouragement, he stepped inside. His heart momentarily stopped, his feet stay rooted in their place, but not one student looked in his direction. He breathed, counted, and sat in his designated place. Mrs. von Martritz smiled once more before closing the door.

More to ease the edge, he set off to prepare his belongings in a way that conveyed eagerness. Books and notebooks beneath the table, pens to the right. It was probably excessive, but at least it distracted him long enough for the teacher to arrive.

After a short introduction from Mr. Ponton, he asked for their names and hobbies, more out of courtesy than actual interest, he thought. If anything, the man looked as though he were about to fall asleep whilst students stood one by one. Byleth exhaled lightly as he watched his peers. Already by the fourth student, many had gone back to their previous activities with the haze of sleep on their faces. At least no one would actually care if he did speak.

He stood once the seventh student sat down. “My name is Byleth Eisner, and I like–”

He stopped, finding his throat suddenly filled with an unknown weight. A hobby? He never really had the time for one, let alone develop any interest in anything. Everything he did during his free time had a reason, be it to earn Jeralt’s praise or to complete a school assignment. Besides, hobbies cost money, money that neither he nor Jeralt could afford to spend.

“It’s okay, son. You can continue,” Mr. Ponton encouraged, though his words were interrupted by a yawn. Crossing his arms sluggishly, he tilted his stubbled chin in Byleth’s direction in an effort to seem more alert.

“I draw,” Byleth finally said, plopping down his seat a bit too quickly after. What a horrible lie. Drawing was not even his strongest suit, barely even anything he was decent in as art did not come naturally to Byleth. Still, it was better to lie about that than admit just how dull his life was.

The rest of the morning was easy to tune out, reminiscent of the public school ennui that always occurred in the first three hours. He had never been too fond of first days. The pretense of care always ran thick in the already suffocating air, made worse by the monotonous intonation of every professor. There were few exceptions. One of which was Mrs. Dominic. Although he was a firm believer that that sort of enthusiasm would not last long, he hoped that for her sake that he be proven otherwise.

The rest of the day was filled with a potent mixture of ennui and anxiety. It settled deep in his chest, but not so much that it seeped through his lungs; just enough that he could feel a looming threat watching each and every one of his actions. He reasoned that it was because of the instructors. They spoke with too much familiarity, reminiscent of those in his previous school. If he did not know any better, he would have probably fallen for the false sense of security.

He was cautious, however. Maybe too much for his own good, but the leer in their eyes were unmistakable. They were expectant of the students. Hawk eyes hidden underneath layers of carefully crafted nonchalance. Byleth remained wary.

Thank Goddess the bell rang, snapping him out of his reverie. He followed the rest of the students to the dining hall and marveled once more. It was not the stone interior that drew him in, much as they were magnificent, but the heavenly scent of food. A bit of a stale undertone, perhaps, but he could easily tune it out. Instead, he focused on the heavy aroma of various spices. Rosemary, thyme, a hint of cinnamon if he really concentrated.

Unfortunately, the prices were not forgiving. Thus Byleth resigned himself to eating whatever his father prepared.

As expected, it was rather easy to set up a pattern: keep to himself, listen during each lesson, eat, listen, then leave. It was the same thing he’d done previously, yet somehow it was also lonelier than it ever was. Maybe it was the unfamiliarity. Silent as he was, he had been fortunate enough to receive a few greetings as he passed by the halls of his previous school. In the academy, however, his peers tend to stay in their cliques. Try as he might, his presence often went unnoticed. It was a bit sad to say the least.

It was probably some sort of karmic retribution, he thought absentmindedly as he gnawed on the crust of his sandwich. Or maybe not. It was more than likely that he was too silent to pay attention to, too plain to catch a curious eye. Maybe he should be thankful for that.

As he swept his eyes across the room, he was suddenly faced with a redheaded boy mere inches from where he sat. Startled, let out a tiny yelp, crushing his sandwich in the process.

“Watcha eating?” the boy asked, an innocent grin on his decidedly deceiving face. Vibrant hair, golden eyes, speckled rosy cheeks – the boy seemed like the type to be paraded by adults, praised for merely existing. Though the bandages on his face say otherwise.

Speechless, Byleth continued to stare at the boy, uncertain if whether he were expected to say anything or not. It may not have been the correct response, however, as the boy pulled away with owlish eyes.

“Man, I thought Glenn was wrong when he compared you to a rock, but I see his point now,” came tumbling out of his mouth, brazen to the point that it was rather insulting.

“I, uh. What?” He hated the way his voice trembled. How dumbfounded he must have looked. To break away from the boy’s scrutinizing gaze, he looked around the dining hall to see if anyone were observing them, Glenn perhaps, though everyone was too engrossed in their meal to notice.

“Hey, don’t look around! Jeez! It’s like you want Glenn to see you or something,” the boy hissed through gritted teeth, yet he still slid onto the bench like an old friend would. Unsettled, Byleth attempted to lean away from the boy.

Truth be told, he was not wholly unreceptive to the boy. He was startled, yes, andhe was wary of whatever the boy’s intentions were; however, he was admittedly the first to pull him away from his melancholic ennui. And maybe that was what drove Byleth to lower his guard. Lonesome as he often was, that did not mean he sometimes craved human interaction.

Though it went without saying that his sandwich remained a barrier between them.

“It’s not my fault he’s interested,” he quipped, watching as the boy’s lips twitched into a lazy smile. Though it was probably in response to his quickly reddening face than his pointed remark.

The boy snickered. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Byleth,” he murmured in between bites of his food. “You?”

“Sylvain.”

  
  



	2. Bosom Buddies (Not)

One of the biggest mysteries of Byleth’s life, albeit there are few to begin with, was that, in his younger years, Jeralt would watch this one video frequently late into the night. Not that his father ever stopped, but he used to watch it more often. And though he never inquired about it, something along the lines of his father being a private man, Byleth had always been curious, nonetheless.

The video in question had a grainy quality to it, the audio expectedly muffled by some noise to match. He wagered it must have been at least two decades old, though he was uncertain. He was sure they still had home videos of the same quality from when their old video recorder still worked, but he digressed. Something about that particular video must be special if even their homemade ones were barely taken out of their flimsy box.

It starts with a man narrating something – what, he could never understand. He was certain that neither he nor Jeralt were bilingual, and it only added to the mystery of why his father was nigh obsessed with the video. Said man continues as the footage cuts to a fencer with her mask off, adjusting her lamé around her neck.

Her green hair is tied into a bun, strands of it framing her, what he would describe as doll-like, face. Another woman with a lighter shade of green hair walks into frame to hand her a foil, which she experimentally flicks. Then she snaps her fingers. A spark of flame visible for just a second before it retreats back into her glove. His first exposure to magic, but he could never ask about it lest he reveal the numerous nights he watched along.

Sometimes Jeralt would watch further than that, and he would see her opponent: a redheaded woman of the same stature, just in the midst of putting her mask on. Sometimes, he would go even farther to watch their ensuing match, but never till the end. Usually, he would stop at the green-haired fencer, and would watch no more than that – a cue which Byleth would take to scurry back into his room.

Perhaps it was no wonder then that his father insisted he take on the fencing program when he told him – offhandedly, he might add – about his minor plight. Of having essentially nothing to show off to a bunch of snot-nosed rich brats (“I’m not trying to impress them or anything,” he muttered around a mouthful of bologna sandwich at the slightest rise of his father’s brow). At first, he laughed off the suggestion, or rather did some semblance of it. If one could call an unblinking stare a laugh, that is.

It was ridiculous, he thought but did not voice out loud. The closest he had ever gotten to fencing were the days when he would pick a stick off the ground and wave it at a classmate, which was half a decade ago. By now, he barely thought of it, aside from the occasional acknowledgement. A popular sport in Fódlan, he had not escaped its clutches when he moved from Leicester to Faerghus.

And, anyway, he doubted that they could afford to buy all that gear.

Yet Jeralt was insistent he take it, or at least in his own way, he was. He had this pattern of convincing wherein he would suggest an idea casually; then if and when Byleth cites some reason not to do it (he never says he is simply uninterested for some reason), he would quip with some logical retort. “What’s the harm in trying?” he would say, and Byleth would usually be rendered speechless.

He could have sworn he had him this time, and yet he was presented with a clause in his scholarship: he had to sign up for at least one extracurricular activity, free of charge. He did not bother to suppress his ensuing groan.

No, he did not bother reading the letter, and he would not waste any time to listen to anyone who has the heart to scold him.

Surprisingly, though, he was accepted into the club and was given a standard foil, which looked a bit different from the one he saw in that video, but what did he know? He, along with others he could not remember the name of, was taught basic concepts: the differences between different swords and their mechanics, the gears that each needed. All incredibly mind-numbing, until they were taught footwork.

He had not thought it incredibly hard until that moment, forced to flit from foot to foot with a foil in hand, a hand poised to conjure mana that he did not know how to invoke in the first place. _All for practice_ , he gritted to himself as a gale of wind knocked him off his feet. To be fair, he was not any better than his fellow trainees – if he struggled, they struggled. Just that he was not fond of the bruises that would surely come later on.

Thankfully, it only went for a short while as majority of the time was spent explaining the sport. He was eager to leave, much like his peers, yet for some reason, he stayed. He did not really know why. Foil in hand, he stepped back onto the stage, the gym now bereft of any other soul.

He disliked how dark it was, but at least the stage was bright.

He assumed the stance he was taught – knees bent, feet apart; one arm slightly outstretched, the other close by. Experimentally, he whipped the foil forth. The blade bent as he made his arm rigid. He was certain the blades he had seen were not that flexible, but then again, he was using a foil. For all he knew, those women could be using what his instructor called a “sabre” or “épée”, which were apparently different from the flimsy-bladed weapon he wielded.

For a while, he toyed with the idea of holding a firmer blade, hitting his opponent in every accessible area as those women did. The idea appealed to him more than whatever he was taught, if he were to be honest. Something about it, whether it was the seemingly feral way the two fencers stabbed at one another, launched fire after fire, or even the semi-frantic footwork, was mesmerizing. Far more than whatever he was doing.

_Now, how do you conjure fire again_?

Drawing in breath, he focused on what warmth coursed through his limbs, amplified by his previous movements. The rapidly cooling sweat on his skin tugged more at his attention, however, and he felt like a fool waiting for a nonexistent something to happen. But this was how he was once taught by one of his father’s friends back in Sauin – an elder with a wrinkled and kind face. He would waggle his fingers at a grade school Byleth, fire jumping from one knobby finger to another, and Jeralt would usher him forward despite his fear.

“It’s easy,” Old Gampy once exclaimed as the fire retreated back into his blackened closed fist. He shifted his sleeve down his arm, the tattoos on his skin visible. “You just feel the fire within, sonny. Sooner or later, it’s gonna come out. Or something.” Old Gampy grinned, and Byleth thought he was pulling his leg.

And yet, here he was, attempting to do just that.

In hindsight, he would have probably done the same. A kid too scared that he hid behind his father’s thick leg was, by no means, a contender for magic, especially one that involved fire. Though let it go unsaid that he only came to that conclusion after his father talked him into it.

Just then, his hand glowed a faint orange. Nothing substantial just yet, but his legs were starting to numb, the sparse hairs on his spindly arms rose in anticipation. His skin pebbled all over in the absence of heat. It was not anything noteworthy – more of a hassle than an accomplishment, really. And yet, for what it was worth, he was proud.

And then, it got snuffed out the moment he heard scuffed sneakers on wood.

It was too distinct a sound and it pierced his ears expectedly. He whipped his head forth to see another boy, Sylvain, head perched on the stage, cradled by his arms.

“Didn’t know you could look that happy,” Sylvain grinned.

He shook his hand, and instantly, all heat returned to his appendages. Too abruptly, he might add. He had to squat just to regain his balance, though it worked in his favor as he addressed the boy.

“What’re you still doing here?” Byleth quirked a corner of his lips in displeasure. “Isn’t it late?”

“I could say the same to you. Help me up?”

Though he certainly felt awkward helping his friend (?) up with sweaty palms, Sylvain did not seem to mind. His grip a solid force in comparison to Byleth’s trembling grasp, weakened by both physical and, dare he say, invocational fatigue. Oddly enough, he did not even think the other needed assistance as Sylvain easily anchored a foot up the stage. The boy was, in Byleth’s opinion, an experienced climber, though he stayed silent. It did not matter anyway. He pulled them both a foot away from the edge of the stage.

Out of habit, the first thing he assessed was the boy’s clothes, what he assumed to be the P.E. uniform of one of the lower batches. It looked similar to his, albeit the shirt was white with blue sleeves. At the back was the name of their academy, printed alongside the logo. Like his attire, his shoes were clean and almost creaseless. Byleth suspected they have never been worn much, if at all. He shook his head and raised his brows.

“Huh, okay. If I tell you why I’m here, you’d tell me why you’re here, ‘kay?” Sylvain said as he dusted imaginary specks off his knees. Straightening his spin, he rested his hands on his nape, folding his arms to frame his bandaged face. “Let’s say that I still got a project to work on, so I can’t go home yet. You?”

He narrowed his eyes the best he could and pursed his lips. Curious that Sylvain lied so obviously, as though he actually wanted to call attention to it, to be acknowledged. Or maybe Byleth was overthinking it. It was more probable that Sylvain was just terrible at lying, or that he was trying to avoid some uncomfortable conversation that did not have to happen between them. Either way, it was not Byleth’s place to ask.

“Fencing,” he simply grunted, waggling the foil in his hand for emphasis. If Sylvain were expecting more than his rather lacking answer, he did not show it. Rather, he only smiled and shook his head, the curve of his lips more genuine and sympathetic than anything else. It made Byleth just a tad uncomfortable.

“Fencing, huh? Do your parents– no, never mind. I shouldn’t assume.” Sylvain once more smiled gently at him. “Glenn, too, but I guess he’s got a different schedule. Pretty sure Felix is gonna enroll, but when he’s old enough. How ‘bout you? How is it?”

Byleth flicked the foil absentmindedly. Glenn – he barely, if at all, knew. Felix, an unknown character. He nonetheless pretended not to hear. “I dunno. My dad’s the one who wanted me to... here,” he finished awkwardly as he shifted from one foot to the other.

“Oh.” Brows raised, Sylvain walked towards the mirror and leaned against it. “I guess we’re both avoiding going home then,” he beamed a bit bitterly.

He must have misunderstood, Byleth thought as he wrenched away from the boy, suddenly finding it difficult to look him in the eye. Suddenly given this influx of information, no matter how innocent it seemed at first pass, Byleth did not know how to approach such delicate situation, if at all. And so, he stayed silent.

For a few seconds, though it certainly felt like a a century, he stood motionless, staring back at the boy who watched him like one would a stray dog. Mustering strength, however, he was able to avert his gaze on to his foil. In essence, a comfort blanket in his hand.

He dropped it, gently, to the ground, however, and approached Sylvain, eventually seating himself beside the boy. The mirror was freezing against his back, though he supposed it was only apt as the aircon had been turned on the whole afternoon. Still, he disliked the involuntary shiver he let out.

“You, er, have any sports or something?” he asked, laying his head against the panel in an attempt not to look at the other. It was a flimsy shot at leaving the subject altogether without the proverbial awkwardness, and perhaps unintended callousness, that usually come with, though he still unintentionally flinched as he spoke.

“Huh? Oh, um.” Scratching his cheek, one of the bandages threatened to peel off. Though at its last legs, Sylvain pressed it against his skin in an attempt to reapply it subtly. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

He nodded, not really sure what he was getting himself into.

Closing his eyes, Sylvain exhaled slowly. “My dad says it’s useless, not good for the family business, but I really like dancing, you know?” He tilted his head as he stared off the distance. “It’s... it’s one of those things you just like doing even if you’re not good at it, so I go home late just to watch dance practice.”

“Oh.”

“It’s... wrong, I know. My dad always says that, my mom always says that, heck even Miklan says that,” Sylvain continued, giving no indication that he actually heeded Byleth. “But you gotta see it, dude! They do this–” Flinging his hands, Sylvain turned to him on his knees. He raised an arm above his head, wrist bent, hand stretched outward.The other stayed low by his stomach, fingers pointing upwards. “This position, like this, and then they balance on their toes – that’s just the beginning – and then a... pir-ho-et?”

“Show me.”

“What? You’re kidding,” he immediately sat on his legs, curling his hands on his by his thighs.

“Nope,” Byleth affirmed. Slowly, he rose and moved towards the edge of the stage. Turning, he repeated once more, “Show me.”

In his younger years, Byleth did not care much for dancing. He watched performances and even learned some basic steps, but so did every child in Leicester. Otherwise, he simply did not harbor any interest. Now that he was older, the sentiment had not change the slightest bit.

He felt vindicated as he watched Sylvain’s poor, bordering pitiful, attempt to recreate the steps he indicated – his arms stiff, his steps tentative. It was particularly painful to watch when Sylvain attempted to slide with his hands above his head, the friction between his shoes and the wooden floor impossible to overcome. And yet Sylvain was smiling. He smiled as he skidded across the floor, he smiled as he failed his third pirouette, he smiled as he stumbled into what he called the “eighth step”.

He even smiled as he fell on the floor.

Byleth quickly made his way to his fallen figure, only stopping short of helping him up on his feet. It did not make much sense. Exposed by the fall was a bruise by his left side – what Byleth assumed to be a result of his ardent effort; he took it proof enough that the particular activity was hazardous for Sylvain, but he looked the happiest he had ever been.

Now, granted, he had not known the boy for long. Along the way, if circumstances allowed it, he was certain he would discover more expressions, but this was special. In a way. The first carefree smile he had ever seen from the boy, and there he was, worrying about it.

Inwardly, he scoffed. Outwardly, he asked if Sylvain were hurt despite knowing he probably was.

“Never better,” Sylvain beamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry it's been so long !! :''(((College is a bitch (yes, the warning is for me, no omg jk) and it literally ate away all my time, so um. Yes. For some reason, my university really thought that since we're at home, it can assign us 5 hr assignments every day??? on top of lectures???? UM. And it's really annoying because when we complained, the admin was like, "We're a resilient people. We can get through this." Like Bruh, even ur staff is tired. I struggle to find a room in our home that's quiet enough for a lecture,,,,
> 
> Anyway, I'll try to write more this break HAHHAHA and yes the chapters are kinda short so technically, i shouldnt even be struggling to find time but ok.
> 
> Also Happy New Year!! I hope that it's gonna be better, but like, it's best not to tempt whatever force is up there,,,
> 
> Also, also (yes im this talkative what abt it),, I hope you don't mind, but I'll sorta make this part a diary? I remember before I was the antithesis of the Catholic™ Education system since I had a single, working class mother while all of my classmates were rich kids w old money parents. It's really,, awkward? AHAHAH AND ON TOP OF THAT,,, i wasnt even fluent in the preferred language. Like, okay, my country has 2 national languages but like,, there's sort of a class thing where the super rich primarily use English and the working class use the language (that's technically ours). So I told this one girl that I'm not that good, and she put her foot on the back of a chair and asked me what that is?? I still don't know up to now, and it's been 11 years

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Honestly, I started this in March, and look at that! I am still not finished because this big dummy said, "Hey, what if we get writer's block when you're not even a writer!" Thanks, self.
> 
> Also sorry if it sucks? I'm more of an artist than writer (and even then I suck at that whoops), but I have some Thoughts to unleash.


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